Think of Me
by Dragima
Summary: Erik is a broken shadow, a lost soul yearning for love. Erin is a breath of fresh air, can these old ghosts of memory find new life in the heart of a child? Will Raoul take back his daughter and kill the wretched beast that took her from him?
1. Of Ghosts

A/N: I'm gonna keep several points of view in this first paragraph, just to establish a few ground emotions and motives. Then, once the chapters are arranged (and I will try to make them obviously tilted to one character's POV) the viewpoints will be less confusing.

Just a warning: There are A LOT of flashbacks in this story (I love thirty-something year old Erik…and his haunted cellar!)

Please please please review::ahem, tries to retain scrap of remaining dignity: Adjusts cravat and opera cloak: Let the phanfiction begin!

**Chapter One: Of Ghosts**

"Hello there" said the little girl between handfuls of hyacinths, her dark curls draped over the soft blue flowers. She seemed to be speaking into thin air. There was no one around her, only a field of yellow and blue with a carriage in the background. Inside was the girl's mother; her father was getting the horses ready to set out once more. They still had around five miles left to travel before reaching the cemetery.

"Are you going to visit your grandfather as well, Monsieur?" she asked her invisible companion. Her pale face brightened, a rosy color tinting her cheeks; the dark shade which remained semi-hidden behind a faraway oak answered with a nod. Anyone listening to her would have probably dismissed her joy as little more than childish enthusiasm, fantasies of an overactive imagination. But to this gentle child, the shadow was very real, no less real than her parents. She placed one of the hyacinths by the tree, and quickly ran back to the carriage, as she heard her father's authoritative, though not unkind, call.

"Erin!" repeated the tall, intensely handsome man. His thirty-some odd years had not yet taken any of the strength from his features. His eyes, though beginning to show signs of age, had yet to lose their icy splendor. He picked her up in a single graceful swoop and placed her inside the carriage, next to the intriguing woman in black. The woman's name was Christine Daae, and though she had not sung in over a decade, rumor had it that her voice was like that of an angel. Her hands lay folded over her lap, holding what seemed to be a single red rose. Each finger rested gracefully over the deep green stem, her creamy white skin a sharp contrast to the intense crimson of the bud. The mother seemed to wake from a dream as her daughter took a seat directly in front of her and began to play with a rather ratty looking figure of a monkey.

"I really do hate that thing. Why don't you throw it away, Erin? " said the mother, offsetting the chiding words with a warm smile and a loving tone.

"No," answered Erin without so much as the flutter of an eyelid. The little girl returned the smile, though her gaze remained fixed on the toy. In better times it would have resembled a monkey; in its hands were two yellowish disks, cymbals. All in all, the plaything bore its marks of wear and age with somber mysticism. Time had been very cruel to that toy. But Erin adored the trifle, more than any other specimen within her vast collection of toys. Both Christine and the Viscount had hoped to divert Erin's attention from the monkey music box by purchasing a varied assortment of other, more expensive (and certainly more handsome) toys for her. In the end, the parents had reluctantly accepted the antique toy box as part of their daughter's life.

Once again, Christine's mind began to wander. Her eyes stared out the window, past the velvet curtains and into the green countryside. She stared but she did not observe, she looked but only saw ghosts. A stag ran alongside the carriage, its mighty legs pounding the cold, damp soil as its nostrils ejected humid puffs of breath into the air. Without quite realizing what she was doing, Christine began to hum a tune, a song from her past. Soon the gentle hum became a whisper, much as the song had been serenaded to her all those years ago. Every day that passed added a new nostalgic sort of value to that song. She could only love this melody the way Erin loved her monkey, with a purity and strength that can only be found in the heart of a child. And Christine had indeed been a child when that love was founded. Childhood love, she remembered bitterly, cannot survive the cruelty of reality.

Christine stopped herself just in time to hear the last note echo into the setting sun. But, what was this? Had Erin been the one to sing that final note?

"Erin, angel, did you say something just now?" asked Christine, a distinct tone of worry in her question.

Hugging her toy, Erin lifted her eyes at last and faced her mother. Her pink cheeks aglow, she nodded her tiny head, tendrils of black hair hanging over her eyes. She continued the song, this time humming a second portion to the harmony.

Christine's heart skipped a beat, though she tried to cover any sign of tension for the sake of her child; she did not want to put Erin through any undue stress.

She began another question, but found could not carry it to fruition. Her words had run dry.

"E-Erin, where did you hear that tune?" She paused, not wanting to continue this line of questioning, fearing the answers.

"Did someone-" A gasp of air. A heartbeat. "-who taught you that song?" she choked out at last. She felt exhausted, as if all her energy had been drained by that single tune. The song which her own daughter now hummed.

She recalled those words from so long ago: _You cannot refuse me, Christine!_

No one, mother," lied little Erin. The child looked towards her monkey and asked it for strength. She hoped his smile would make lying to her mother somewhat bearable. The toy brought with it thoughts of her invisible companion, her teacher and friend. These memories comforted Erin deeply, helping her escape from her lie.

_-Why must I keep you in darkness, master?_

_-Your mother, your father; they must never know. They are not part of our world. I am for you, sweet child. You alone._

Christine's gaze shifted to the doll, and a chilling sensation shot down her spine. She tried to comfort herself, repeating over and over that she was simply overreacting. They were miles from the infamous opera house where so many of Christine's own secrets lay buried. Still, secrets can only find rest in flesh, not stone. Had the ghosts of memory found new life in the present? Clearly Erin held a place for the past in her heart, even if it was only in the melody of a phantom. This thought, of course, frightened Christine more than any specter of memory.

"Erin, you must tell me who taught you this song. Where did you hear it?" Her voice became uneasy and the black veil she wore over her eyes now waved with the ardor of her breath. She took Erin by the shoulders -the girl's expression turning to one of shock and horror- and pleaded for the truth.

"Mother! Mother! You're hurting me!" Erin's plea snapped Christine back to the present. She let go of her daughter –now seconds away from bursting into sobs- and muttered an incoherent sort of apology. She hugged Erin, throwing both arms over the trembling, startled child. Erin was deceptively strong, crying very few times throughout her early childhood, but this outward show of fortitude belied a truly fragile heart. Christine felt her heart break under the child's pained expression. She recalled someone else who had awakened these same feelings of pity and love. She saw him-his eyes, his vulnerability, and his kind nature- within this girl, this little angel. Christine prayed that some of that kindness remained within him still.

Christine longed to hear him sing once more. She knew it was an awful thing to wish for, that song could only bring about pain and anguish for both her and Raoul. But oh to hear that voice which the heavens must loathe and envy for its beauty, and the infernal fires of hell must scorn and ridicule for its perfect righteousness! An angel in exile from Heaven and Hell alike.

They reached the cemetery a short time afterwards. Christine followed Erin as she deposited the blue flowers in front of her grandfather's mausoleum door. Erin knew her way around the cemetery quite well, every Sunday the three of them would come to the Daae tomb and place fresh flowers over her grandfather's grave.

Christine hesitated. She saw Raoul flinch out of the corner of her eyes. He could sense it, too, the musky smell of freshly dug up soil.

"Mother?" asked Erin with a look of complete confusion. Erin felt her father's protective grasp on her shoulder. She sensed that he knew more to this scene than he was willing to divulge at this time.

He called to Christine. "Let me come with you" said the Viscount, brow knitted in concentration.

Christine simply shook her head; she always preferred to spend some time alone inside her father's tomb.

Erin watched as her mother stepped into the shadows of the Mausoleum. She remembered the time she had escaped her father's side and had sneaked inside the tomb, her eyes had widened in surprise. She had heard the voice of an angel as soon as she had stepped inside the tomb. The angel, she later found out, had been her own mother.

Raoul's eyes followed Christine through the portal as well, but his mind reeled with fear and anxiety. This was a stark contrast to Erin's thoughts of music and angels. Raoul hated to leave Christine alone, even if it was for only a short ten minutes. He always felt like he could still lose her. He had learned never to take her for granted.

She heard his voice whispering her name _Christine… _

She disappeared into the darkness of the mausoleum.

Suddenly, as if haunted by the very demons of hell, the horses from Raoul's carriage began to buck and kick madly, threatening to pull the carriage apart. Raoul ran over to calm them, or at the very least, prevent them from causing further damage. He did not see Erin walk over to the mausoleum door.

Christine felt her knees weaken all of a sudden. She thought her heart would pound itself into oblivion it was beating so fiercely within her chest. She opened the door, without taking so much as a single look back towards Raoul, whose voice seemed so far away.

"Father." She heard her own voice resounding throughout the marble walls. There were statues of various sizes arranged throughout the site, some holding the scales of justice, symbolic of eternal peace and tranquility. There was a bust of Pallas before the portrait of her father. Just below the statue was a violin. Christine's heart sank into her chest; she gulped anxiously. No. This instrument was in excellent condition; it bore no signs of age. Fourteen years of sitting in a damp, cold Mausoleum and the violin had not a speck of dust! This was not her father's violin. Her mind raced. She could not contain her thoughts or her emotions any longer. She did the only thing she could.

"Think of me

Think of me fondly

When we've said goodbye

Remember me

Once in a while

Please promise me

You'll try

We never said

Our love was ever green

Or as unchanging as

The sea."

She couldn't bring herself to finish. The tears overwhelmed her. She fell to the cold marble and could sing no more.

And yet, to Christine's great surprise, the tune refused to die. The pristine soprano of Erin's voice continued the melody, thriving where Christine's song had faded. Kneeling on the icy floor, Christine turned her head in the direction of her daughter's voice. Erin was now at the threshold of the crypt. Her skin was quite pale, making her dark hair and cool green eyes appear supernatural and ghostly.

"Think of

all the things

we've shared and seen

Don't think about

The way things

Might have been

Think of me waking

Silent and resigned

Think of me

Trying too hard

To put you from my mind…"

Erin's voice froze in a strange mixture of terror and fascination. Her mysterious tutor was there, close to her. Though she could not see him, she still felt his presence, his warmth. He finished her song.

"When you find

That once again you long

To take your heart back

And be free

Just promise me that sometimes

You will think…"

The owner of the voice moved into the light, one step at a time. His face, though half-hidden by his carefully sculpted porcelain mask, melded sorrow and joy into a single expression. His eyes were the same dark green as Erin's. The girl felt hypnotized by his face. It seemed to her both distant and familiar all at once.

Erin walked as if entranced towards the man in the mask. He welcomed her with open arms and embraced her with the tenderness of a father, an angel. The girl felt a drop of water land on her cheek. Can a phantom cry? Her own tears soon followed.

Christine could do nothing more than sit and stare at the scene before her. She looked at the man who had once inspired her purest, most beautiful song, the man who had given her life by sacrificing his own happiness. She knew what he wanted, but had always hoped he would have reconsidered his demands. Perhaps she had hoped that the generous angel who had restored her freedom might spare her child.

Erik pulled back from the embrace just long enough to gaze lovingly into Erin's eyes. She seemed more beautiful to him now that he could finally adore her from up close. No more distance, he promised himself. He kissed her forehead. She fell into his arms like a wounded bird.

_That's right, my dear, sleep. It is better that you do not see…_ He thought inwardly. For a moment he allowed himself to believe that Erin would indeed forget. He allowed himself to hope for her undying, untainted, love and approval, knowing she was the only being in the world capable of this feat.

He would have gladly stopped time right then and there, with this pristine, saintly creature lying peacefully in his arms. He thought it so odd that, though she had been the one to faint, he still considered her infinitely stronger than himself.

"You cannot have her," said Christine, gathering the strength to stand from some unknown place. Suddenly a torrent of anger flooded her voice, her hands shaking in controlled fury.

"All I wanted was you." The phantom whispered breathlessly, his voice uncharacteristically hoarse.

Christine took note of the tears welling within his eyes, those eyes which had entranced and fascinated her so long ago. Had things really changed so much? She questioned inwardly. No. The deep, overwhelming green of the iris and the penetrating way he used the eyebrow to express emotion still made her weak at the knees.

Christine was not sure to whom his words had been directed. Did he mean the child in his arms or the child of her past? He regained his former composure and continued in his usual somber tone.

"The night you left me I thought I would never love again. I had nearly given into the jaws of despair, ready to transform into the monster the rest of the world believed me to be. But she rescued me; her birth gave me new life. You cannot deny me life, Christine."

She saw his eyebrow lower over what had become a mere slit of an eye. A flicker of dark green was all that remained of the iris.

The Phantom threw back his long black cape and tossed some unseen object onto the marble floor. The object shattered; an explosion of smoke immediately followed the deafening boom. He carried Erin's tiny body in his arms, appearing all the more menacing and powerful because of the wall of smoke that enveloped him.

Raoul could see smoke coming from the Mausoleum entrance. Forgetting the maddened horses, he rushed over to the tomb as quickly as his legs could carry him. He drew his rapier by its curved, silvery hilt, the cold blade reflecting the white snow.

Raoul entered the mausoleum, his breath uneven and fitful. Night had begun to settle over the cemetery, and he could hardly make out the shadowy figures inside the tomb.

"Christine!" The Vicomte de Chagny's voice pierced the night air like the sword he so expertly maneuvered.

"Raoul!" Cried Christine, her brow furrowed in desperation.

Raoul ran into what seemed a black wall of smoke and vapor. He recognized the hallmark of the Phantom's trickery. Smoke and mirrors, thought the Vicomte with disdain as he continued to venture deeper and deeper into the foggy haze.

He searched the darkness for the ominous green eyes of the Ghost. The dark cloud stung Raoul's eyes and they had begun to water. Still, he was unsure whether this was due to the effects of the smoke or at the idea of losing his only child.

Suddenly, the ground gave out from beneath his feet, sending him crashing down into a sizable opening in the mausoleum floor. Once the smoke had cleared, he could hear Christine's sobs echoing faintly throughout the tomb.

**AN: Want to read more? Well, I'm sure a few reviews will scare away the ghosts of writer's block :wink wink:**


	2. Of Angels and Drugs

**AN: Well, I would write some comments about the reviews…but don't have any to speak of (this is only a temporary affliction I am sure…) **

**I shall have to occupy my time talking with Erik.**

**Me: So, Erik, how was your day?**

**E: Fine, burned down an opera house today. **

**Me: Really, another one?**

**E: Well, come on, they had my character completely wrong!**

**Me: But Phantom of the Opera isn't an Opera, it is a musical.**

**E: Really? Oops. Who's Adrew Lloyd Weber anyway?**

**Me: (pats phantom on the head) Oh dear, don't speak…you're so handsome, albeit only when you have that luscious half-mask on your face. **

**E: (with some confusion) And who the hell is Gerard Butler? Crazed, fanatical females are hunting me down on the streets and asking me for my autograph. They seem to think I should have a Scottish Accent! I've never even BEEN to Scotland!**

**Me: (patting the phantom's shoulder, cooing softly) It's alright, don't worry…here, read the never chapter to my phanfic.**

**E: Yes, I think I shall…**

**Me: And so should all of you…**

**E: (confused again) All of whom?**

**Chapter Two: Of Angels and Drugs**

_So this is death_, thought the Vicomte, only half conscious of his surroundings. The fall had left him bruised and delirious. At the moment he was absolutely certain that he was dead, for surely this had to be an angel's face staring back at him.

"Raoul" said the winged beauty, a soft glow about her dark hair and ivory shoulders.

_No. Don't frown angel! _Raoul pleaded in his mind._ You are too beautiful to worry about me. You should be happy. You should be singing and laughing. You should have stayed with Him, that would have made you happy! But instead you chose— _

"ARG! AH!" The pain shot through his left arm with lightning speed. His thoughts of angels and beauty quickly faded, replaced by piercing, stabbing, unfathomable pain!

"Hold steady, Raoul. Please! We have to set the bone!"

"At least he is conscious, you can be thankful for that Countess."

The voices seemed to be coming from all around him now, one was soft and gentle, marred only by the distinct melancholy which filled its tone. The other voice was low and hoarse, sounding much deeper and worn by age.

"Please, give him something! He is in so much pain!"

"That is to be expected, Countess!" The grating voice sounded annoyed, slurring the last word.

"Please!" The other implored, cracking slightly.

"Alright, I suppose we could use the Laudanum. Sparingly!" It boomed fiercely.

What Hell is this? Raoul's mind started to wander away from the room, away from the pain of his badly injured body and away from the two warring voices.

So this is how it ends for the Vicomte de Chagny? Not with a bang but with a whimper?

Angels began to flood his mind once again, and he was thankful for the ever-merciful inventor of what the fierce voice had called "Laudanum."

**E: Ha! The fop is having delusions! Wimp!**

**Me: Yeah…poor Raoul.**

**E: (glares) What?**

**Me: (clears throat nervously) nothing. I just suggested to my readers that they leave a few reviews by using the link at the bottom of the page.**

**E: What is a (says word slowly) _link_?**

**Me: (sigh) Um…I'll explain that later.**

**E: And for God's sakes who the HELL is GERARD BUTLER?**


	3. Of Soprano Voices

**Me: (finishes explaining what a computer is) So you see, that is how I am able to "publish" something without actually "publishing" anything.**

**E: (in usual aloof manner) Well, it seems like a great deal of trouble for a mere story.**

**Me: (glares)**

**E: (anxiously) Er…uh,…I mean, Brava, Brava, _Bravisima!_**

**Me: (taking a pleased bow) Thank you. I really enjoy our little conversations, Erik. See, you don't need that silly little ingénue. I suppose you are just really lucky that she ran off with R-**

**E: (glares)**

**Me: (nervously) Er…uh, the fop. Because that means you get to stay here with me! (smiles and hugs Erik)**

**E: (look of complete dejection on face) Yes...my luck never ceases to astound me :to himself: maybe I was better off with the mob of furious Parisians…**

**Me: What was that?**

**E: Uh…hm? Nothing, say is this a new chapter?**

**Me: (beaming) Yes! Wanna read…?**

**E: (sigh) Do I have a choice?**

**Me: (with dagger-like stare) Do I have a Punjab lasso under the laptop? _READ…_**

**Chapter Three: Of Soprano Voices**

"_Angel I hear you" called the young chorus girl. She paced from one corner of the room to the other, searching desperately for something, someone._

"_Speak, I listen!" She spoke once more, desperation taking a vice-like grip over her throat, until she found herself gasping for her next breath._

_She stopped in the middle of the dressing room, hope fading alongside the echo of her beloved Angel's voice. Perhaps he had forgotten her; the idea made her stomach lurch. He had not visited her in weeks. How could he marvel and enchant her nightly with that heavenly voice and then simply leave? _

_She began to wonder whether this angel had not simply been the advent of a silly little girl's overactive imagination. Christine's eyes began to well with the familiar sting of tears. Had her angel been borne from the hopes of an orphan and the dreams of an aspiring singer? _

_But the lessons had been real enough and the improvement of her range was more than enough to prove that he had not been a mere dream. This fact comforted her deeply, still she sang to console her bleeding heart. She sang to prove to herself that her angel would always be there, to guide and guard her._

_To hear his voice return her song was pure bliss, and she fell in love with her Angel all over again on that night. _

"_Angel" it was the only word that her lips could pronounce at that instant. Her only thoughts were of him._

"_I am here, child, though in shadow I may hide. Though you may not see my face, I am in your thoughts." And she knew he was. Like a ghost of memory he would always be inside her mind. _

_She had never seen his face, a disembodied voice was her sole companion. _

_The Opera Populaire was a cold and dismal place for a young girl, especially one with no family and no home. Meg, at the very least, had her mother to comfort and care for her. Christine had only her rickety old cot and a dream._

_It was this dream that kept her going through the darkest times. She cried herself to sleep each night, and each morning she told herself that someday, somehow, her tears would run dry. Someday she would be truly happy. She would be a star, a true prima donna. _

_The lesson was like nothing she had ever experienced before; the voice of her angel seemed to soar and gain in strength with every minute they shared. Every note uttered by the precious Angel set her heart aflutter, nearly making her swoon. She longed to see the form attached to that miraculous voice. In her mind, she pictured the wings of a dove, white and graceful, and her father's gentle smile. _

_She was having difficulties with one of songs the Angel had given her to rehearse. It was the aria to _The Allegory of Cupid and Psyche_. Try as she might, she could not achieve such a soprano note as the one called for by Psyche's poignant pledge to Cupid. Christine feared disappointing her master, but it was impossible for her to complete the line. _

"_I'm sorry, master. I cannot." She could feel the hot flaming tears begin to form inside her eyes. They seemed to take all the love that she possessed for her Angel and fuse it with all the feelings of disgust she held for herself. _Silly child_, she berated herself internally, as she so often did those days. _

"_Yes, your voice is more than strong enough." He cooed, his voice coming from the very air surrounding her._

"_Angel, I have failed you." Once again sobs threatened to overtake her petite frame._

"_Do you trust in me?" asked the voice._

"_With all my soul, Master." The response was nearly automatic; all doubt had been cast from her mind a long time ago._

_She felt more than willing to do all that her Angel commanded. She would follow him into the gilded gates of Heaven and the smoldering inferno of Hell with the same blind acquiescence. She was, in many ways, a slave to her Angel, but she was a willing, eager slave, by no means was she searching for the oppressive freedom of a life alone._

"_Follow my voice." Said her Angel, and for a moment she could sense something foreign in his tone._

_What could emotion was this lurking in the somber tenor of her Angel's voice? She did not recognize it immediately, but was later assaulted by the realization that this foreign emotion was the same which had begun to taint her own tone. It was longing. I was the need for a companion. _

Can this be true?_ Thought Christine, her heart nearly melting with sorrow for her Angel. _Is my Angel lonely?

"_First, you must close your eyes. I will show you the way." Spoke her Angel, his words quickly bringing a halt to her reveries. _

_The esoteric command sent her mind reeling. What would she do if, after all his efforts, she still could not meet the high demands of the song? She wanted nothing else but to please her Angel, this entity sent from the heavens in answer to her prayers…_

_She closed her eyes, her hand subconsciously moving up over her corseted stomach and settling on her wildly beating heart. She felt the soft skin of her chest, and the gentle warmth of her own body._

_She felt a chill fill the air, her heart beat furiously under her palm. She felt someone loosen the wrap she wore over her hair, the curls falling, floating over her bare shoulders and reaching her waistline. Her heartbeat was erratic. She did not dare open her eyes._

_Her Angel had begun to sing the very song which she had been rehearsing, though he sang the part which belonged to the male lead, Cupid. His voice was much deeper than hers; its masculine strength was a comfort to her fragile ears. She let her mind wrap itself around the sweet sound, its heavenly resonance filling the very core of her being._

_Had she wanted to so, she could not have opened her eyes, such was the hypnotizing effect of his voice. She wanted to fall into the music which her Angel so expertly controlled. She wanted to die right then and there, certain that he would be waiting for her at St. Peter's gate with this song on his lips._

_A gasp escaped her throat as she sensed the warmth of her Angel standing right behind her. _

"_Do not turn around, my dear." He said sweetly, she could feel his breath on her left ear. The sensation sent goose bumps running throughout her skin. He must have seen them, for he took a step backwards before continuing his speech._

"_I am sorry if I frightened you, my child."_

_She could feel the sadness in this last sentence, and it broke her heart to hear his wondrous voice fill with such pain. It was then and there that suspicion crept into her young mind. _Angels do not know of sorrow, _she thought inwardly. But the thought melted away as quickly as it came._

"_Angel, please." She was barely conscious of the desperation hanging from her every word._

"_Do not draw back from me. I was not frightened. I could never be frightened of my Angel." _

_She thought she heard a sharp intake of breath coming from her Angel's direction. _What could he be thinking_? She wondered. _

"_Angel?" She asked, eyelids firmly pressed together, heartbeat still unusually elevated._

_A sigh._

_A whisper._

"_I am here." _

_She couldn't repress the smile that fought its way onto her face. It was such a comfort to hear him speak. She prayed silently for her heart to slow, lest he should step away from her again._

_A long pause lingered in the air. His slow, steadied breathing was Heaven on her shoulder._

_Christine frowned worriedly, what was it about his breathing that both relaxed and disquieted her? Then there was the strange physical reaction she was having to this presence. She knew nothing of her own mind. Such a silly little girl! She taunted herself thusly for some seconds, and then all thoughts gave way to her Angel's soothing words._

"_I will begin the second verse." Christine felt his lip brush past her ear as he spoke._

_The goose bumps had returned, and she scolded her body for its cruel betrayal. She rubbed her arms in a desperate attempt at making the insolent bumps vanish. Still they clung to her arms and shoulders like sin._

"_Free your mind, my child. Music is the only thing that will fill your thoughts now. Follow my voice as I sing."_

Free my mind indeed!_ She chided silently._

_He began the aria, his voice gentle and mild at first. Cupid beckoned Psyche to be his secret wife, to let him take her to a golden palace in the sky. Christine heard her Angel's words, letting them linger and reverberate inside her head before finding a warm spot inside her heart. _

_Christine let the voice enfold her like a warm blanket on a cold winter evening. It filled her with blissful longing, rich desires which, until that moment, had been a complete mystery. She let the caresses trickle down her neck and shoulders. Christine felt her skin flush a bright rose color, a stark contrast to the creamy white of her nightgown._

_Christine's knees threatened to buckle under her skirt. She stumbled lightly, the soft green fabric of her skirt swaying gently, making her look very much like a dandelion caught in an updraft._

_Before she could make the effort to pull herself straight, she felt the warm sensation of her Angel's hands of her forearms. His hold was both mild and firm, preventing her from falling but producing no discomfort to her arms._

_A traitorous thought passed through her mind as she felt her Angel's arms drape themselves around her waist. She wondered what other sensations her Angel could produce for her. _

_She turned around and she heard the same sharp intake of breath she had sensed a few minutes earlier. But her eyes were still closed, the smile on her face widened without her knowing._

"_You should lie down."_

_He stepped away from her, leaving her body aching for his warmth. But she dared not disobey her teacher, her Angel. She took a seat at the edge of her bed, hoping that he would sit next to her, hoping that he needed to feel her warmth as much as she needed his._

"_You are tired," he said with a sigh. "We will continue our lesson tomorrow."_

"_Wait!" She shot up from the bed, grasping thin air in search of her Angel's hand, hoping to pull him back. She felt her fingers reach something hard and warm, the lapels of his coat. She could feel the firm musculature that lay beneath the elegant fabric. Once again the impious suspicion arose within her mind. _Angels do not wear suits.

_Her exploring hand continued to search for his wrist, finding what seemed to be an opera cloak, satin vest, cravat and the tiniest rim of a shirt. She dared not continue her hand's journey, surprised he had allowed this much prodding on her part. She took his hand imploringly, and asked him to stay; assuring him that she was not in the least bit tired._

"_Please Angel, I am well enough to continue."_

_Her eyes still closed, she searched the silence for any indication of her Angel's reaction to her plea._

_A sigh._

_Yet another sharp intake of breath. _

_The latter made her pulse race once more, and she could feel heat radiating from her limbs, her chest, and areas she couldn't rightly pinpoint._

"_You are well enough to stand?" _

_Her mind reeled, could she?_

"_Yes! Of Course!" She returned enthusiastically. She went to her former position in front of the mirror, thinking it rather useless now since her eyes were closed. _

_Once again she heard her Angel's voice begin the aria. Her heart sank. Was he not going to stand as he had done before? Was he not going to sink into her ear as he had done before? _

_He told her to join in the next verse, but her voice was choked with disappointment and something else she could not quite describe._

_She tried to do as her Angel instructed and purge all thoughts but those of music from her mind. She joined his voice, and could only imagine heaven producing a more enchanting duet._

_The candor of his tone, the swift, clear stroke of each note that passed his lips, it was all a great dream within her mind. Except that it was real, and she was living this dream, singing with her Angel. _

_Then it was time for the dreaded, unreachable chord. _

_He coaxed her voice, stroked and charmed it into the most beautiful pitch she had ever heard. It was him! She knew it was his instruction which had produced the note! She was infinitely grateful, the joy within her heart new no bounds._

"_Angel! I did it!"_

_Turning in the direction of his voice, she spread her arms widely and threw herself to him. She lost her balance briefly, but she steadied herself with his tall, unyielding body. She clung to him for some moments, until finally she felt a hand on the small of her back. It then moved to stroke her hair, and she couldn't help but smile blissfully at the simple touch. _

_She needed more._

_But what, exactly, _was_ more?_

"_You have done very well, my child." _

_Suddenly it was not enough to have his verbal praise. She needed the comfort of his physical presence. Though she had embraced him- rather brazenly, she mused- she needed to know that he wanted to hold her as well._

_She removed her arms from their position over his forearms, and laced them over his shoulders, which were far higher than she had thought. She felt completely dwarfed by comparison, but this only served to heighten her need for his embrace. _

_She tilted her head upwards, hoping that in her blindness she would at least be able to point her face in his direction._

_He said nothing, but thought she felt his heart beat faster. She pressed her whole body against his; a gesture she had hoped would reflect her gratitude and admiration. She wanted him return the gentle hug, a small expression of kindness, a small measure of hope from her Angel. That was all she needed. _

_Had she been covered in flames he would not have pulled away faster._

_He gripped her hand gingerly and, shaking it for a second or two, quickly announced the end of the lesson. _

_She thought it so disheartening that he did not say his usual "Your voice is progressing very nicely. We shall continue tomorrow, my little prima donna."_

_She opened her eyes, and found only the mirror glaring back at her, taunting her for her rashness. She had disrespected her Angel, and he was angry with her, she was sure of it. It had been because of her that he had left so quickly. Her last thoughts that night were of her Angel, and how her foolishness had pushed him away from her. _

_Still, one more thought lingered, threatening to set her entire life on its side. Why had she needed to sense his physical presence? What were these feelings he had awaked inside of her with that simple loosening of her hair? Most importantly, she wondered, how could she arrange for a repeat performance of that touch? _

**Me: (smiling broadly) Nice, huh?**

**E: (mind still on Christine's flowing nightgown and lacy bodice) Yeah…**

**Me: (angrily) Alright, I think you're enjoying this a bit _too _much. Just for that, the next chapter is about _Raoul_!**

**E: (groaning loudly) Aw! Great!**

**Me: Now please tell the readers to review my phic.**

**E: (mechanically) Please review her phic…(hand to the side of his mouth, whispering) and if you get the chance, tell her to write more about me and less about the insolent fop! Also, please tell me who that guy is, I'm starting to get fanmail from people I've never met! **


	4. Of Nightmares

**Me: Erik Look!**

**E: (stunned) What? What happened? (jumps up and draws sword) Is the mob of phangirls here again! Back phangirls! Back I say (points sword in defensive posture)**

**Me: (palm to face) No, Erik. I was just about to say that we got some reviews.**

**E: (sarcastically) We? Since when is you and I a_ we_.**

**Me: (frustrated) Must we dwell on pronouns (laces arm with his).**

**E: Well, at least you're not a phangirl…or obsessed with that Gerard Butler guy everyone keeps talking about.**

**Me: (knowingly) Um…yeah…that's right. I'm am so NOT obsessed with Gerry…:cough:**

**E: (suspicious) Wait. What was that cough? In my experience people only cough when they have something to hide! **

**Me: What? That's ridiculous, I'm…er…uh…getting over a slight chill…yeah, that's it… Look! A new chapter! (diverts attention to updated chapter)**

**E: (refusing to be sidetracked) We will most definitely discuss this…after I find out what happens next…(remembers previous chapter's ending A/N) Wait! This is the _Raoul Chapter! _(shakes head furiously) _Nooo!_ **

**Chapter 4: Of Nightmares**

Raoul's unconscious mind was awhirl with agonizing imaginings. His psyche taunted and scorned him, plaguing him with memories, visions of a past he would have buried long ago. Sadly, this was not an option, not now, not anymore. The ghosts of memory had been resurrected; they had found new life in his beautiful child, his beloved Erin.

He knitted his brow in concentration, forcing his eyes to focus where they could not. He searched the darkness of his nightmare for answers, options, anything to ease the maddening anguish of losing his only daughter. But his sightless blue eyes could only deceive and perturb his aching soul, preying on his doubts, intensifying his fears.

_I have failed you, Little Lottie, _Raoul mouthed. His voice was hoarse and wispy. Even through dreams the familiar emotions assaulted him.

Before him stood Christine dressed impeccably in a white satin nightdress, her honey-tinted tresses cascading softly over one shoulder. She was an Angel of light, his Little Lottie. It seemed to Raoul that she had never looked more beautiful, or more anxious.

Raoul felt his heart skip a beat.

He ran to his wife, wrapping an arm protectively over her quivering form. She was so frail, he thought silently, as if she could shatter into a thousand pieces. She could not speak for a few moments, and he allowed her the precious minutes she needed to regain her composure. Each sob was a dagger through his own heart, but he welcomed the pain if it would bring her some measure of peace.

"He was here." She choked out miserably, before falling into a state of self-preserving numbness. Raoul could see she had been crying for quite a while, perhaps it was time she let her mind drift into blissful, soulless apathy.

He knew the fears had lain deep within the recesses of his mind, but he had been so presumptuous to push them aside, so eager to believe the Phantom would not return. He kicked himself mentally for allowing Christine's childlike trust to blur his instincts. She was too innocent; she had believed the Phantom's promise of freedom.

_I should have known better! I did know better!_ Raoul scolded himself again.

Christine's pale hand tugged him back to reality, her ashen face a chord pulling at his heart.

For a moment he considered all possible courses of action, he could scour the grounds, but he knew the futility of hunting a ghost. The man could come and go as he pleased, when he pleased. A cold rage swept through Raoul's heart as he thought of that monster's hand wrapped around Christine's porcelain neck, that singular kiss. A kiss which had both saved and destroyed Raoul's ebbing sanity.

"Did he hurt you?" He spat out finally, his breathing erratic like his tone.

A chill ran down his spine.

He felt his jaw tense as he continued in a haggard tone.

"Where's Erin?" His question seemed more like a gasp for air, a plea for mercy from a man on the edge of reason.

Raoul did not stay to hear Christine's reply. He sprinted to the second floor, past the servant's wing and through the library into the nursery.

The familiar scent of lilac was a welcome sensation; he ignored Christine's footsteps coming swiftly to his side. His eyes well fixed to the tiny bundle of peach colored sheets lying peacefully in the large cradle in the center of the room. The intricately woven canopy partially obstructed his daughter from view, but he could see two pink toes peering out from under the expensive silken blankets.

Picking Erin up with all the delicate strength he could muster, he forced himself to face Christine once more; worry still marred her china-doll face.

Raoul wanted to scream.

_He who dwells in shadows shall tremble before the light!_

He wanted nothing more than to keep his daughter and his wife away from that vile ruffian. That apostate Angel of darkness! The guardian of Hell!

Christine gripped his trembling hand, still mindful of disturbing the cooing angel in his arms. Raoul couldn't help but wonder how many hours, days, weeks, that beast had spent watching, silently stalking his family, waiting for the right opportunity of instill fear into their happy home. He suddenly took great pity on the delicate mockingbirds which frequented the estate. Once, as a young boy, he had found one of the songbirds lying dead on the ground, struck dead by a callous raven, yet another unfeeling menace of shade.

"Tell me what happened." His words were laced with barely controlled rage.

Raoul was a man on the brink of madness; he had suffered a lifetime's worth of dread in a single year's passing. He burned with a silent, horrifying sort of loathing. His hatred for the Phantom now blazed a thousand times stronger, for it had fused with the fear and indignity of having his home invaded.

His anger had become an entity all unto itself.

The monster had waited for him to leave. He knew Raoul would have had to go attend to affairs of state overseas. He knew Château de Chagny would not remain guarded forever. The police had remained only to ensure a safe and uneventful birth. Even then he had managed to obtain Terry Sheridan's services by relying on the power of the Chagny name alone. Then the constable, too, had left, and Christine had remained vulnerable and alone in the gilded cage that was the Chagny estate.

All at once the feelings of guilt and shame feel on his shoulders. He berated himself internally but tried to keep a calm façade for Christine's sake. She needed to know that he would guard her, care for her, hide her if need be! After some moments of waging silent, furious war with himself and his ghostly rival, Raoul felt ready to address his love once more.

"Did he—"he cleared his throat, indignant at the crack which had insisted interrupting his question.

"Did he harm you, Christine." He rarely called her by her Christian name, causing her to flinch visibly. Her creamy skin turned a pale rose color as he touched her cheek with a gloved hand, still cradling young Erin in his left hand.

They both seemed so small and helpless, and it took all of Raoul's self-control to refrain from taking them both in his arms and never letting go.

"No." Her eyes had begun to overflow with mournful tears. Raoul was abashed at the reassurance these tears brought to his own mind. She did not love him, she feared him, he told himself triumphantly. The corner of his mouth curved into a half-smile.

"The servants think I am mad. They did not see or hear anyone."

Raoul gazed into those brilliant brown eyes, so child-like and yet burdened with such an adult threat.

He traced her tears with his thumb, stroking her honey curls with his long fingers.

"The servants are fools." He smiled painfully, his face bent on ruining his one attempt at levity.

He replaced Erin inside her cradle, careful to support her tiny head and shoulders. Draping the delicate fabric of the canopy over the cradle, he turned once more to his wife, thankful to see her face had also softened somewhat since his hasty welcome.

"I saw him, Raoul. He was right in this room." She seemed to rethink what she was about to say, no doubt hesitant to worry him any more than necessary.

Her voice began to fail her as she continued with the horrific tale. The Phatom had warned her, threatened her it seemed, that he would never stop until he had taken what was owed him. Christine shook with silent tears as she finished retelling what she had experienced the night before his arrival.

Raoul stepped closer to her, wrapping both arms around her waist, and placing his cheek on her shoulder. He was trying to comfort her, but it was he who benefited from the tender gesture. It was heaven to hold her, to feel her warmth and know that she was with him.

_I am so sorry_.

"I am so sorry. I am—" He pleaded through fevered nightmares. His eyes darted to and fro under tightly closed lids.

Raoul awoke from his night terror drenched in cold sweat, the pain in his arm a welcome respite from the wounds his dreams had opened. Wounds that would no doubt need to be bleed and sewn afresh, wounds that needed to be purged of the sickening infection keeping them from healing properly.

Only fresh blood could heal his wounds now, Raoul thought bitterly, trying desperately to reconcile his unconscious mind with the unfamiliar surroundings in which he now found himself.

He opened his eyes, or rather, allowed himself to take in the remaining details of his surroundings. He was in a simple, though comfortable bed, white sheets drawn all the way to his mid-drift. He realized moments later that he could not move his left arm, nor could he sit up straight without someone's aid.

Lifting his eyes to the small window near the vanity opposite his bed, he saw his Little Lotte sleeping deeply, if not soundly. He could see a tired expression on her face, marked by faint, thin lines across her forehead. Raoul knew these were lines of sorrow, not age. She sat on an uncomfortable looking stool; it had neither back support nor a cushion. She had crossed both arms atop the vanity, using them as a makeshift pillow for her head and shoulders. She groaned softly as the first rays of sunlight found their way past the white cotton curtains and into the tiny bedroom.

Raoul saw her smile as she looked into his eyes, but it was merely a half-hearted smile. It was the expression of a woman with a cross to bear.

_She is too young, much too young to bear such a load._ He pushed the thought away; he wanted to allow himself one happy thought, one thankful moment before facing cruel reality. She was with him; she had undoubtedly spent the entire night by his side.

Wait.

Night?

How long had he been asleep?

The question passed his lips without him being fully aware of it.

"Just over two days, Raoul" she voiced wearily. He had to stop himself from cringing at how haggard and frayed her voice had become.

She made her way to his bedside, and took his right hand with her own. He tried to move the injured arm to his side, but it was securely fastened to his chest. He took note of the thick gauze wrapped all around his arm and chest, serving as an impromptu sling and cast all at once.

As a Chagny, he had grown accustomed to only the best medical attention (and indeed everything else) that money procure, so he couldn't help but chuckle the sheer irony of his present situation. A Chagny, recovering from (as far as he could tell) a broken arm and several injured (if not equally broken) ribs inside of a hovel in the middle of God knows where.

A confused look spread across Christine's face as Raoul began to chuckle softly, finishing the laugh with a slight groan. She opened her mouth as if to ask him what he thought so amusing, but stopped at the knocking on the bedroom door.

She sighed, irritated at the sudden interruption, and called the interloper inside with a swift "Enter."

Once again, Raoul noticed the quake in her voice, its gentle beauty eclipsed by what he could only guess was sorrow and concern. He did not want to think about the cause of tha sorrow. Not yet anyway.

He had to make a conscious effort to stave off all thoughts of Erin. His mind knew of her disappearance, but it was not yet ready to cope with the implications of the kidnapping.

**Me: So, whatcha think, Sweetie.**

**E: (annoyed) Please refrain from any sort of ridiculous nicknames.**

**Me: Aw, not even doodlebugs?**

**E: Especially not "doodle-" arg! I cannot bring myself to repeat it!**

**Me: (Immitates Carlotta) YOU LAV ME!**

**E: (rolling eyes) Yes, yes, whatever you say. You seem to have me hostage here in your bedroom anyway, so I might as well concede to your pathetic little whims of fancy. (dread dawns on his face) Um...why am I here anyway?**

**Me: You've been here for four chapters and you don't know why?**

**E: Oh I know why I came, to hide from phangirls. But why, exactly, I have chosen to stay all this time is a mystery beyong my imagination.**

**Me: (absently) Oh, don't worry. (beams) You just stay here and keep me company while I beg for reviews.**

**E: Fine. It's not like I have an opera house to haunt any longer. Who knew the Populaire would be so damned _flammable!_**

**Me: (cooing in his ear) Don't worry, I'll help you forget those mean old opera singers.**

**E: (tries to remain calm, inches away slowly) Er- uh...yes. Please keep both hands on the keyboard. _Both hands, Please!_**

**Me: (dissapointed scowl) Fine. Oh, before I go, I want to thank Nattie for her excellent review. I urge her (wink wink) to keep it up! Thanks number FOUR! And also thanks to Gerry'sLoveTart for the nice comments...short and sweet...Erik thanks you too.**

**E: Don't put words in my mouth.**

**Me: Hm,...If I were you, I would really try to avoid invoking the image of your mouth. It is hard enough as it is trying to keep my hands at the level of the keyboard. **

**E: (nervous smile) Point well taken.**


	5. Of Catacombs and Kidnappers

**Me: Hey, we'd Erik go? (looks frantically about the room)**

**Me: (now beginning to get hysterical) EEEERRRRRIIIIIIKKKKKK!**

**E: (pained expression, hands over ears) I am right here you incessant girl!**

**Me: (relieved, hugs Erik forcefully) Where were you?**

**E: (clears throat) Even phantoms have to use…er…uh, the facilities…**

**Me: (runs to bathroom, leaving Erik with a quizzical look on his face…the visible half at least)**

**E: (puzzled) What _are_ you doing?**

**Me: (grinning broadly, takes seat in front of laptop) You are _such_ a gentleman! **

**E: (no less confused) What are you rambling about? Oh, see what you made me do! I ended that question with a preposition…are you happy now! You have made an uncouth imbecile out of me! (shakes hands in exasperation)**

**Me: (smile fading only slightly) Oh, Erik…you put the toilet seat down! (grinning broadens once more).**

**E: (face changing from angry to confused once more) You are insane.**

**Me: (stares blankly) I do not understand.**

**E: (exhausted sigh) Alright, have you written anything new? **

**Me: (beaming once more) Yep! Here it is…my newest masterpiece! You think I should name this chapter _Dragima Triumphant_?**

**E: (clears throat impatiently) My dear, (ignores the fluffy expression on her face at the sound of this term of endearment) you may call this chapter "Widdle-bunny-froo-froo" for all I care. All I ask is that you update: often and well. (stands up and waves hands madly about his head…eyes ablaze with fury) And no more foppish displays of affection for Christine from the FOP!**

**Me: (unaffected by the raging phantom aiming death stares at her) You seem upset.**

**E: (eye twitches slightly as he tries not to Punjab the little brown haired girl in front of him) ARG! (finally gathers some composure and turns to laptop monitor, once again ignoring the dreamy look on girl's face as he sits alarmingly close to her) Do you mind scooting over to your left, I cannot see the screen.**

**Me: (ignores him) Thanks to GerrysLoveTart for the excellent review! (curses Lara Croft under breath) How _dare_ she kill my Gerry!**

**E: (Horrified look) Wait. That is _it_! _That_ is what you were hiding with the cough! You (covers mouth in terrified fashion) are a_ Gerard Butler fanatic!_**

**Me: (suave look) We prefer the term "tart."**

**E: AHHHHH! (runs screaming for the door…turns around horrified upon finding the door locked).**

**Me: (pats seat next to her in front of laptop, Erik gives up and goes to read)**

**Me: Please review!**

**(real A/N: I've added the following section to chapter four and am too lazy to put it in, so I'll put it here. I'll indicated where Chap. Five really begins.)**

He opened his eyes, or rather, allowed himself to take in the remaining details of his surroundings. He was in a simple, though comfortable bed, white sheets drawn all the way to his midriff. He realized moments later that he could not move his left arm, nor could he sit up straight without someone's aid.

Lifting his eyes to the vanity opposite his bed, he saw his Little Lotte sleeping deeply, if not soundly. The light from a nearby window stung his eyes. He could see a tired expression on her face, marked by faint, thin lines across her forehead. Raoul knew these were lines of sorrow, not age.

She sat on an uncomfortable looking stool; it had neither back support nor a cushion. She had crossed both arms atop the vanity, using them as a makeshift pillow. She groaned softly as the first rays of sunlight found their way past the white cotton curtains and into the tiny bedroom.

Raoul saw her smile as she looked into his eyes, but it was merely a half-hearted smile. It was the expression of a woman with a cross to bear.

_She is too young, much too young to bear such a load_. He pushed the thought away; he wanted to allow himself one happy thought, one thankful moment before facing cruel reality. She was with him; she had undoubtedly spent the entire night by his side.

_Wait._

_Night?_

How long had he been asleep?

The question passed his lips without him being fully aware of it.

"Just over two days, Raoul," she voiced wearily. He had to stop himself from cringing at how worn and frayed her voice had become, quite a long way from the crisp, clear soprano of six years ago.

"You are very fortunate, Raoul. The doctor has agreed to take good care of you; he was even kind enough to offer his home as a recovery room." Christine guessed his next question before he even opened his mouth to ask it.

"St. Peter's was too far to drive, you were unconscious and there was no way of knowing how long you would survive without immediate aid. I ran as fast as I could," she furrowed her brow in anxiety; Raoul could see the lines begin to deepen on her ivory forehead.

"I—I ran to the church. Thankfully, one of the monks knew Dr. Marek lived close by and sent word for him to come and tend to your wounds. We found you in a dreadful state, Raoul." Her voice faltered as she said his name. She stood with her hands clasped together on her lap, looking very much like a child who's lost her favorite doll.

"We took you to the church, and the doctor had to stitch your head right there in the apse. For a moment there I thought--," Raoul could see she was fighting a losing battle against the tears, "I thought you would not make it all the way here. I thought I would lose you right there inside the church" She covered her face with her left hand.

"Oh, Christine." It hurt Raoul to think that, after all these years, she still did not feel comfortable crying in front of him. But it hurt him even more to see her suffer; he would have welcomed another broken arm if it would have stopped her pain.

She made her way to his bedside and took his right hand with her own. He tried to move the injured arm to his side, but it was securely fastened to his chest. He took note of the thick gauze wrapped all around his left arm and chest, serving as an impromptu sling and cast all at once.

"So. We are in a house, in the doctor's house to be precise. Well then, that means you are my nurse, is that right?" He tried to make his voice sound as playful as possible, lifting his hand to touch her chin and then brushing her cheek with his thumb, as if wiping away an unseen tear.

She smiled again, this time her pain was more than obvious, vivid in her big brown eyes. Her long black lashes were still damp from crying. He knew she was only smiling to make him feel better, to ease his mind. But he was no fool; he knew a plastered smile when he saw one. He knew the real Christine Daae smile, and this was far from it.

He stared at her for a moment, trying to capture the gentle curve of her lip, every strand of hair, the soft pink of her cheeks. He wanted to freeze this moment, a moment which, for all its sadness, still brought some measure of comfort because she was with him.

She seemed to notice him staring at her, opened her mouth as if to ask him what he thought so intriguing, but stopped at the knocking on the bedroom door.

She sighed, irritated at the sudden interruption, and called the interloper inside with a swift "Enter."

Once again, Raoul noticed the quake in her voice, its gentle beauty eclipsed by what he could only guess was grief. He did not want to think about the cause of that sorrow. Not yet anyway.

He had to make a conscious effort to stave off all thoughts of Erin. His mind knew of her disappearance, but it was not yet ready to cope with the implications of the kidnapping.

Raoul recognized the tall, broad shouldered gentleman who strode into the room. Terry Sheridan was a bold- some might even say cocky and overbearing- man with a somewhat questionable reputation. He was a man who liked to follow his own rules, not the most agreeable of character traits when serving as an officer of the law. But Sheridan had never given Raoul a reason to doubt him. It had been Sheridan who had arranged for Christine's police oversight after the Ghost's first and, as it had turned out, only appearance. That is, until the demon had decided to grace them with his presence once more, Raoul thought bitterly.

Christine offered the constable a seat much like her own uncomfortable stool. He refused with a polite shake of his head and a quick "no thank yee Countess." His thick Scottish accent, coupled with a deep, booming voice made Sheridan seem like an ancient warrior charging into battle. The man might have been a Hun or a Geat in his past life, a regular Beowulf resurrected and turned policeman. Raoul often found this trait a bit unsettling, it seemed to him that Sheridan was a loose cannon, likely to fire at any moment, at anyone. He wondered, with a slight wince, what had caused Sheridan to leave Scotland; then quickly decided it best he did not know the answer.

"Glad to see ye awake, Cah-unt." Sheridan smiled crookedly at the bedridden Raoul, tipping his head slightly as a sight of respect.

"Constable Sheridan. I, too, am glad to see you are well." Raoul returned the gesture, though not quite as effectively, seeing as he was still in quite a bit of pain.

"I only regret that your presence signifies his return." Raoul's voice deepened as he finished the sentence, letting an awkward pause fill the room.

Christine, realizing this was her queue to leave, quickly excused herself, though her expression was one of muted protest. She shut the door tightly, the ratty iron hinges making a creaking noise and the knob jingling slightly as she turned it.

"I trust my wife has informed you of—"

Raoul hesitated for a moment, hesitant to retell the story, lest the guilt should find its way into his heart again. He was thankful when Sheridan interrupted him. Raoul knew impatience was another one of the Scot's character flaws.

"The Countess has informed me of everything. I wanted to speek with ye before I took any definitive steps. I do not know how much discretion ye would like."

Raoul knew exactly what the Scot meant by this. The Chagnys had taken quite a blow to their family name after the scandal at the Opera Populaire, and then the media fires had flared once more after the Phantom's visit to the manor. The newspapers always managed to draw their own despicable conclusions about the Phantom and his involvement with Christine. Even Raoul had endured more than his fair share of slanderous articles and disparaging accusations. Not the least of these had been circulated by the Héraut Parisien, which had circulated a story blaming Raoul for the disappearance of Count Phillipe. The infuriating little man who had written the article had even gone so far as to imply that the old Count had fallen victim to his younger brother's lust for power.

No. Raoul knew that in order to spare Christine's fragile temper, and save whatever reputation the Chagny name still possessed, this ordeal with the Ghost had to be kept completely confidential. Raoul suspected that was the reason why Christine had called upon Sheridan specifically, instead of simply calling the local authorities for help.

"Sheridan, let us drop all formalities, shall we?" All the pent up rage surged to the surface. Sheridan's expression was one of surprise, shocked by the Count's bold display of anger, especially since Raoul was normally such a mild tempered man. But, true to form, the Scot immediately returned to a state of wry amusement and let the Count continue his tirade.

"I want this to remain between you and me. No police, no incessant newspapers mucking up my good name." Raoul waited for a reply from Sheridan, but received only a knowing nod in return. He continued, this time with an eerily steady voice.

"I want that man dead."

Raoul's mind reeled with the image of the Phantom taking Erin into a black cloud of smoke, taking her into the prison of his mind.

"That wont be difficult, Cah-unt, yer friend is a ghost. He has been dead fer yeers," returned Sheridan with a sarcastic laugh.

One thing about Sheridan that had always bothered Raoul was the fact that, no matter how grave the situation, he always managed to make some cynical comment. Normally his dry humor would not affect Raoul this much, but he was on edge, he wanted blood, the phantom's blood. Raoul did not, however, feel like talking nonsense with an overconfident, roguish policeman.

"I don't have time for humor, constable. I do, however, have more than enough time for you to tell me how you plan to dispose of that monster and returning my dear Erin!" Raoul started to tremble after the first sentence, his eyes wild with fury and his gaze cold as ice.

Sheridan smiled; it was a closed, mirthless curve of his lips but a smile nonetheless. He brought his hand up to stroke his chin, and then ran his thumb and index finger along the corners of his mouth, brushing them past his short, scraggly beard. He took a deep breath before stepping a few feet closer to the Count's bedside.

"I do not believe I'va ever seen you quite so heated, Count. Though I understand where it may be coming from. I can't tell ye fer sure when or how, but I guarantee ye that I will do all that is in my power to get yer dahter back."

**Chapter 5: Of Catacombs and Kidnappers**

He carried her all the way to the carriage. His strong arms made quick work of picking up the small child and placing her on the one-horse coach.

Looking back towards the cemetery, he realized he might never see Christine again. He would have to leave Paris forever. He knew that Raoul wanted nothing short of a slow painful death for the Phantom, which was why Sheridan, and not the "official police" would be hired for the search. To Sheridan, there was no such thing as capture, only destroy.

He knew that today would be the beginning of the rest of his life. A life he hoped would be forever entwined with Erin's. He smiled as he considered the endless possibilities for his dear girl. And yet, his restless mind drifted back to the familiar fears of persecution, he recalled the unruly mob that had followed him into his lair after the Don Juan performance and a shudder ran throughout his body. He knew that by kidnapping her, he had also sealed his own fate.

Still, it would take the Count quite some time to inch his way out of the trap the Phantom had prepared for him. He recalled the sound the Count's body had made as it came crushing down onto the rocky floor of the ditch. The phantom stifled a victorious chuckle, knowing Erin could wake at any moment.

Erin. The sight of the poor child tugged at his heart with an amazing force. The taunting voices returned, filling his head with guilty, terrifying thoughts. What had he been thinking? Uprooting this defenseless child, giving her no chance to say goodbye to her past life. What if she hated him for it? What if she was able to see through his façade of decorum and elegance into the dissolute truth of his existence? What if, after all his efforts at befriending her, she still missed her old life? Most importantly, what if she loved the Count and blamed the Phantom for ripping her from her father's arms?

Yes, that would be very appropriate, he thought with bitter irony. To be rejected by both the mother and the daughter. He allowed his gaze to linger for a few moments over the girls' long black curls, her pale skin and her slightly pursed lips. A pang of longing suddenly struck his heart, and he felt physically weak.

He kneeled on the white covered floor, the snow dampening his black trousers. He brought his right hand up over his chest, clutching the delicate fabric of his gold brocade vest. A terrible shooting pain ran all through his left arm, settling over his chest. He suddenly felt as if he could not breathe. Undoing his cravat with a single wild sweep of his hand, he took a deep gulp of air and tried to calm himself.

A few long breaths later he felt strong enough to mount the carriage; he placed himself next to Erin in the driver's seat. He found her slow, steady breathing more comforting than any opera he had ever attended. With a sharp flick of the reins the horses began their stride through the thick snow.

He thought of the system of tunnels he had so ingeniously constructed throughout the cemetery. If anyone ever found them—in itself highly doubtful--they would surely believe it would have taken a team of men a decade to complete. In truth, some of the tunnels had already been there, he had merely found and restored them. They were most likely remnants of ancient early Christian catacombs. He was probably the only man in France, or the world for that matter, who knew of their existence. Dazzling mosaics, illuminated manuscripts, and a few ceremonial scrolls had provided a sizeable income for the phantom since the Opera Populaire's destruction. He had known exactly which crooked art historians to contact, ones who would not hesitate to purchase a priceless artifact simply because of its dubious origins. He had gained quite a sizeable income from his discoveries.

Still, for all his fortunes, for all his luxuries and worldly comforts, he chose to live in his old tomb. He still lived five stories below the very opera house which had led to his undoing. His life was even more pathetic now that the opera lay in ruins. Before he had been content to sit by and watch life unfold before his eyes, ballerinas and their illicit love affairs, corrupt stage managers and their shady dealings. He had even amused himself by playing a few pranks on the corps de ballet and sending the occasional extortion letter to the managers. But now all life had drained from his Opera House, there was only the Phantom, a rotting corpse of a man, a Ghost. He had to smile cynically at the wretched being he had allowed himself to become.

But no more of that! Erin would be his link to the outside world. Through her, he could experience once again the love and joy he had lived with Christine, albeit all too briefly. He would continue Erin's training—as he had been doing for the past three months—and she would, no doubt, lead the life of a diva. The life he had promised Christine so many years ago, the life she had refused in pursuit of her precious Count. He pushed the thought out of his mind, slapping the reins forcefully on the horse's back, sending the animal into a galloping fury.

He took Erin's hand and pressed it softly to his lips, he needed to feel her, touch her. He wanted to know that this was not one of his hallucinations. He often had dreams where he was allowed to live the life he might have had with Christine. A life where Erin was his daughter and not the Count's, a life where he woke next to Christine in his bed, instead of his miserable reflection mocking him from beside the four poster.

He took in the subtle smell of hyacinth embedded in her skin, the same flowers which awaited her back at the opera cellar. He knew this was her favorite; he had memorized every conversation they had ever shared. No detail was too small, no memory too insignificant when it came to his Erin. _His Erin_. She was for him, as he was for her, no bloody Count would get in his way this time. He would do anything and everything necessary to keep this child, or at the very least, he would die trying.

"Hyah!"

With a maddened neigh, the horse continued in the direction of the Opera Populaire. Only one more question remained: how would this angelic child react when awakened in the middle of the Hell that was his lair? The phantom would find out soon enough.

**Me: (excitedly) SOOOO?**

**Erik: (trying to seem standoffish) Well…I suppose it will do, after all, the fop IS severely injured. But that Sheridan Fellow, I do not like him. (angry look)**

**Me: (knowing smile on her lips) Heh..heh…_I _ like, I like him a lot…(smile)**

**Erik: (glare)**

**Me: (anxiously) Er…um…I mean, yeah, was a "ruffian"!**

**Me: (trying to change subject) Oh! (imitates Mdme. Giry) And I have a message for you from the Opera Ghost!**

**Erik: (annoyed) _I AM THE OPERA GHOST!_**

**Me: Oops…sorry, I've always wanted to say that though…(laughs, hands erik a note from reviewer Sugar Peaches) **

**Erik: (takes the note and reads…) Actor? What? I am confused with an ACTOR!**

**Me: (smiles) Yep…a really HOT actor…**

**Erik: (furiously) YOU KNEW OF THIS?**

**Me: (sees queue to wrap up entry) Well, it appears that it is time to go…say buh-bye, Erik.**

**Erik: (indignant) I most certainly will NOT! **


	6. Of Blossoming Beauties

**Me: Here we are once more, my dear Phantom…**

**Erik: Don't call me that (broodingly)**

**Me: Call you what? Phantom?**

**Erik: Yes.**

**Me: Why?**

**Erik: Just don't do it. (continues brooding)**

**Me: (confused) o….k…..**

**Erik: (testily) Is this a new chapter or what?**

**Me: (cheerful) Yep!**

**Erik: No fop, right?**

**Me: Read and find out…(smiles)**

**Erik: (reads and broods all at once) **

**Chapter Six: Of Blossoming Beauties **

_Madam Giry rushed to the ballet rehearsal room, she was already five minutes late for the usual 2 PM routine. Dashing past a rather confused looking set designer, she quickly opened the door to her private quarters and unlocked the small linen closet where she knew she would find her cane. She did not use it for mobility's sake, but rather as an teaching aid, tapping the rhythm on the wooden floors, drilling the beat into the minds of the young ballerinas._

_Locking the door, she turned to walk down the hall when her step was suddenly halted by the tall, striking figure of a man in full evening attire. His face was half hidden by a fine porcelain mask, crafted in the likeness of the left side of his face._

"_My goodness, Erik," said the ballet mistress with a slight shaking of her hands, "you really should not be out in the open like this. Someone might see you." She furrowed her brow, little creases appearing around the corners of her eyes and forehead. She brought one hand up to the back of her neck, a gesture which often signaled distress on her part._

"_I will not stay long. I have a letter for our dear managers," said the masked man darkly, the left brow lowered slightly, and Madame could have sworn she saw a tiny smile cross his lips, "Christine is to play Psyche in the upcoming production. See to it that those fools who run my theater heed my commands."_

_Giry massaged the back of her neck with her left palm, then extended her free hand to the envelope which the masked man held out to her. She bit the corner of her lip anxiously._

"_Why Christine, Erik?"_

_The question had been on her mind ever since the man had chosen the little orphan as his student those eight years ago. She had always wondered what interest a surly fellow like the Opera Ghost might have in a naïve, somewhat plain child._

_Giry had never dared oppose Erik's wishes, and when he had requested to become Christine's tutor, she had found it impossible to stand in his way, though the question had never faded from her subconscious mind. But now that Christine was becoming a young woman, Giry grew increasingly anxious about the Phantom's relationship with the girl. Gravely, she wondered how long it would take for Christine and the Ghost to cross the boundaries of morality. _

_Still, part of her wanted to believe that the shy, gentle young man she had rescued from the traveling fair was not completely lost. She wanted to trust Erik, but for too long he had shut her out of his life, isolated himself in that damned cellar. Years ago, she had come very close to falling in love with an unfortunate boy with a scarred face. Now with this single question she would try to resurrect whatever pieces of that boy remained within the Opera Ghost._

"_What are you talking about, Madame?" returned the man with an irritated scowl. _

_It took all of Madame Giry's strength and self control to keep her voice from cracking as she spoke._

"_You have done so much for Christine, Monsieur Erik. I cannot help but think—she grows more beautiful with each passing day, I wonder if your love for Christine has not grown into something else as well."_

_She saw something flare within his eyes, and for a moment she felt he would strike her down right where she stood. She closed her eyes, expecting the worst. After a couple of agonizing seconds, she realized he had not yet spoken a word._

_She opened her eyes and Erik was gone. It was then that she grasped the true meaning of the words Opera Ghost. He was a creature of darkness, moving to and fro with the foremost ease. Giry's stomach lurched as she thought of how easy it would be for the Ghost to sneak into Christine's room, how perfectly helpless she was to stop him. _

_The ballet mistress sighed, she would have to trust him for now. She had no other choice._

_Madame Giry's words had shaken Erik to the very core. Now, as he skulked past the entrance to his lair, his feet seemed to take him in an entirely different direction. Something inside of him needed to visit Christine's room. He worked his way through the dark, hidden passages of the Opera until he was once again facing the familiar mirror which worked as a gateway into Christine's room._

_He looked into the mirror which separated his world from that of Christine. A piece of glass he had often dreamed of breaking into a thousand pieces—a silly little hunk of silicon which kept him from his lovely Christine._

_But why did he want to cross that final threshold into Christine's world. Why could he not simply content himself to remain as her silent and caring benefactor? Why did he so ardently desire to have her eyes gaze into his? Did he expect anything but fear and loathing from them as they took in his hideous form? _

_Still, there was a way he could reveal himself to her without the risk of incurring her repulsion. If his intentions were truly those of a father, then his presence would only inspire and encourage the blossoming diva. But in order to plan for this disclosure, he needed to be completely sure that his feelings for Christine were entirely plutonic._

_In truth, Madame Giry's words had angered him because they had stirred latent fears within his subconscious, and now an all too familiar voice taunted him. _

"_Do you love her as a father? No, not _really_. Fool! Puppet to your bestial urges! Now you shall lose the only thing of value in your wretched existence."_

_It was his ultimate fear, revealing himself to his child and having her repelled by his abhorrent face. He had hoped to overcome his physical deformity by offering Christine the most pure emotions of his soul, granting her what he knew was her greatest wish, the love and protection of a father. But if he allowed his lust to taint his affection for Christine, then all hope of building a real friendship with her were lost. There would be no future for them, not as lovers, he chided internally. _

_Then it was settled, he thought resolutely, furrowing his brow over eyes that seemed to glow in the dimly lit tunnel. _

_He looked into Christine's room; it had not changed at all since her arrival at the Opera Populaire all those years ago. She was still meticulous and obsessively well organized. Her small vanity mirror was made out of a rough, grainy oak, bleached a pristine ivory color. Unlike most other Rococo style furniture, the dresser was not overly ornate; it was not gilded or rimmed with ivory as most of the furnishings within the opera house. But the piece still bore the seashell pattern of a truly delicate and masterful work of art. He remembered every stroke of the chisel, every swipe of the sandpaper that had gone into completing it. He recalled, with pride, the joyous expression on Christine's eleven-year-old face as Madame Giry had presented her with the piece as a gift from her mysterious patron and teacher. _

_The warm memory comforted Erik deeply, and he felt confident about being able to overcome his licentious desires and continue to see Christine as his adorable child. He had no choice, this was the only way he could remain by her side. After all, she had made it quite clear that she wanted an angel, not a deceitful, conniving demon._

_He stirred from his musings when he saw Christine step through her door. She looked perfectly exhausted, and quickly discarded the headband she used to keep her long chocolate curls out of her eyes during ballet rehearsals. He took out a small, well-polished pocket-watch from inside his vest pocket, and was a bit surprised to see that it was already five thirty in the afternoon. _

_He knew Christine's daily routine by heart and, had it not been for the brief lapse in his internal clock, he would not have ventured to her mirror at this time. He knew she would be getting ready for her evening classes. The last thing he needed at the moment was to walk in while she was undressing. He would never forgive such a trespass on her privacy, he respected her too much for that. From the moment he had restored the passageway from her mirror to his lair, he had taken a personal vow never to abuse it. _

_The mirror was meant to allow him to speak with Christine, so that he may coach her voice. He couldn't very well show up at her door and offer to teach her in person. No, the mirror had the advantage of anonymity and, though intrusive, it was his only viable means of contacting her._

_Christine was still fussing over her unruly curls when Erik turned to go back into his dark home. She topped suddenly, a reaction which caught Erik's eye immediately. She turned her head to face the mirror, Erik stood frozen by her piercing stare. For a moment, he could have sworn she had looked directly at him._

_He dared not move for several minutes thereafter, helplessly lost inside her large brown eyes. He was like a deer in a meadow, listening intently for the snap of a twig, the rustling leaf that would signal the hunter's approach._

_But why was he so worried? His logical side reasoned that it was impossible for Christine to have seen through the two way mirror. The glass was specifically crafted for that purpose; it had been the exact same material he had used in the secret passages of the Shah's Palace back in India. And yet, part of him actually relished the idea of her having felt his presence, even though she had clearly not seen him. He began to hope that theirs was an unspoken bond, a true connection which allowed one to sense the other's presence. He knew it was too wonderful and idea to be true, and so he pushed the thought out of his head as quickly as it had surfaced._

_She let go of her half-finished braid, the defiant brown locks began to trickle down her back and over her shoulders. She did not seem to pay them much attention, however, instead taking a few wary steps toward the full length mirror. _

_Erik felt his heart begin to pound harshly within his chest. He noticed the lacy strap of her ballet outfit had broken; it hung carelessly over her corseted front. The sight of her bare shoulder caused an instant reaction from Erik's body. He rebuked himself internally for his weakness. He gritted his teeth and turned away from the mirror. Closing his eyes tightly he passed a trembling hand over the left side of his face. Later he placed it on the wall of the corridor, using it for balance, as it seemed even this faculty was beginning to fail him. He let out a barely audible groan as he stalked his way back toward the underground lake._

_He reached the murky green waters, and searched the darkness for the familiar sight of the gondola which served as transportation to his lair. He spotted the boat and frowned slightly, the tide had pushed it further from the edge than he would have liked. He waded through the waist deep water, finding the coolness of the lake surprisingly refreshing. He would make it a point to take a second dip once he had arrived had at the lair. _

_Erik poled the boat through the glassy surface with surprising speed. He was thankful for the exercise, as this provided some outlet for the arousal Christine's bare shoulder had caused him. It was as if all his desire for Christine, awaked by that single stolen glance at her naked skin, was fueling his muscles, giving him near superhuman strength._

_What he had not been ready to admit to himself was the fact that, for the first time in his life, he had felt truly fulfilled. His feelings for Christine stemmed not from mere animalistic hunger, but from a deeper, nobler, desire for love. He loved her and yet he could not bring himself to enjoy this affection. He feared that this emotion, like all other beautiful things, was beyond his reach._

_His hand drifted towards his mask, his fingers tracing the line where his skin met the hard porcelain surface. The gondola finally hit dry land. He remained sitting at the edge of the prow. He buried his head in his hands; the tiny groan which had escaped his throat a few moments earlier as he had stood behind Christine's mirror now gained strength. It turned into an uncontrollable sob. He slammed his fist against the side of the boat, the unyielding wooden surface made a low, rumbling sound. It echoed throughout the cavernous opening which was his dark home._

_Instantly, a rush of pain flooded his senses, and he was glad for the physical agony. It was a welcome respite from the pain of losing Christine._

"_Come see the Devil's Child," he whispered, gasping for breath. _

_Then, after his lungs had filled with the damp, cold air of the haunted cellar, his whisper turned into a guilt-ridden scream._

"_I **am **the Devil's Child!"_

**Me: So…whatcha think?**

**Erik: (a bit hot under the collar) Um…Christine….has…er….definitely…um…changed.**

**Me: (sick of talking about Christine) Oh do shut up about that girl! Just for that, next chapter's about Raoul!**

**Erik: (angrily) _Vengeful _woman you are!**

**Me: _Right_ you are!**


	7. Of Bloodhounds

**Erik: (impatiently) Well get on with it, woman!**

**Me: (testily) Well if you don't ask nicely I simply wont post anything at all.**

**Erik: (whispering menacingly, takes stuffed lion from its place on top of a pillow) Well, I suppose Mr. Lion here would hope that you reconsider that particular course of action. (takes out Punjab lasso)**

**Me: (takes lion, desperately) Ok OK! I'm finished, here is the next chapter! Gosh, Erik, you only needed to ask NICELY!**

**Erik: (coolly) I don't _do_ nice. Remember the Masquerade Ball?**

**Me: Yes, yes. I remember (pictures Erik in full Red Death costume, complete with tight red pants, hugging in all the right places, smiles broadly)…**

**Erik: (puzzled at her goofy expression) Are you all right? I hope you are not worried about that silly stuffed lion. I can't _really_ choke him, you know. He's made out of _cotton_.**

**Me: (dreamily) Uh-huh….(continues in daydream for a few more seconds before finally popping back into reality) **

**Erik: (snapping fingers in front of her eyes) Were you about to _post_ something? Oh, like, let's say, a _new chapter! _(growls angrily)**

**Me: (slightly embarrassed) Oh yeah…heh heh (smiles weakly) Here you go. Oh, and say thanks to Sugar Peaches for her nice comments…**

**Erik: (irritated) No.**

**Me: (sighs exasperatedly) Oh you really are annoying, you know that?**

**Erik: Why, because I will not bend to your every whim like that pathetic fop undoubtedly would!**

**Me: Hm…(thinking) Now _there's _an idea. Maybe I should bring the fop to read my story…**

**Erik: (snapping irately) What! Not while there is air in my lungs!**

**Me: Too late! (grins) Hi Raoul!**

**Raoul: (looking rather pleased with himself) Hello there! (bows politely)**

**Erik: (gets ready to jump on Raoul with Punjab ready in hand)**

**Me: (interferes, dangling new chapter in front of Erik's face like a dog with a bone) Erik! Stop it! Here's your blasted chapter! You're not even IN IT but oh well…**

**Raoul: (smiling handsomely) Am _I _in it?**

**Me: (shakes head sadly) Sorry…er…no…Christine's in it though. And Terry too…**

**Raoul: I should probably catch up with the rest of you (takes out previous chapters and begins to read)**

**Erik: Grr (glares at fop, who doesn't seem to notice he's received death rays from the Phantom).**

**Raoul: (flips the page and continues to read, mouthing words slightly) Oh, well, that's really dreadful! (continues with assorted "oh my's" and "goodness"-sses). **

**Me: (in impatient tone) Oh grow up, will you? Here's the chapter…(bossily) READ!**

**Chapter Seven: Of Bloodhounds**

Christine needed only one glance at Constable Sheridan's eerily calm face, and she knew he had already come up with some underhanded scheme to catch the Phantom, with Raoul's complete support, no doubt.

She knew the policeman's reputation better than most, having known him for the better part of six years. He had been the man Raoul had consulted when setting the _Don Juan Triumphant_ trap for Erik. There were few minds in all of France, and indeed the entire world, she mused, that could rival Sheridan's cunning and his ruthlessness.

He was just exiting Raoul's recovery room, the rather beaten up old door creaking loudly just as it had when she had been the one to exit the room nearly an hour ago. She wondered, briefly, how it could possibly be that a man so devastatingly beautiful on the outside could have such a repugnant soul. In her opinion, he was no less disgraceful than the very criminals whom he sought to imprison.

She tried to catch his attention, not an easy task when considering that the last thing she wanted was to meet his penetrating gaze.

"Constable Sheridan," she choked out from a corner in the far left of the long corridor.

The tall, athletic-looking gentleman stared at her blankly for a moment. Apparently she had caught him in the middle of a highly distracting daydream, or a sinister plot. She would have wagered on the latter.

The man's green eyes glistened with recognition and he made his way to her corner of the hallway. He stared at her for a moment, his dark brow hanging low over the eyes which Christine tried so desperately to avoid. She mistakenly dropped the small ball of thread she had been using to mend her tattered skirt. She had torn the hem while helping doctor Marek carry Raoul into the small nave of the church. She had not wanted to do anything but stay by Raoul's side since the accident, fearing that his condition might still worsen. But now that he was awake, the doctor had assured her that the worst was behind them, and so she had found the strength to tend to the less significant damages left in the Phantom's wake.

Sheridan bent to pick up the small ball of black string, he scooped it up into his large, rugged hands in a single, graceful movement. He let a small groan escape his lips as he worked his way back to his full height, feigning exertion.

"Ah, Coun-tess, here ye goe." He stretched out his hand to her, offering the ball with a gentlemanly smile, though try as he might, he could not shake the ironic look from his eyes.

"Thank you, Constable," returned the Countess coolly.

"How are ye feeling? I am very sorry that the Count is in such a state. Yer looking well, though, radiant as ehver."

She took the object from his extended hand, shrugging off the compliment as if it were a curse. She hated the way he called her "countess," his thick Scottish accent uttering the title slightly slower than any other word in the sentence. It always sounded as if he were trying to seduce her. She was rather put off by the seemingly innocent comment, knowing Sheridan was always looking for ways to draw attention from the opposite sex, married or not. Besides, she suspected that there very little about Mr. Sheridan which could be considered "innocent."

But, though Christine would never allow herself to admit it, she found the man's raw sexual energy nearly impossible to resist. Despite the plain brown waistcoat and tattered black trousers, she could make out a truly sculpted physique: broad shoulders, long, masculine legs, and strong hands marked with scars and cuts, no doubt from his ten or so years on the force. But all she needed was a flash of those shining green eyes--almost frightening in their intensity-- and all attraction vanished from whence it came.

"Constable, I have something to ask you," she replied, shifting her position anxiously as she noticed his eyes had traveled, though for a mere second, to the line where her corset met the white flesh of her cleavage.

Immediately the sharp green eyes darted back to her face.

"And what would that bee, Coun-tess?" Christine suppressed a shiver as she heard him utter the miserable title.

She kept her gaze as icy as she could, trying not to give any trace of her unease.

"What are Raoul's plans for dealing with—" she allowed her words to trail off. Luckily, Sheridan sensed her worry, interrupting her before she found herself in the middle of a proscribed word: "Phantom."

"I'm not sure yer hubbie wood like fer me to divulge that information, Countess." He gave her a smile which she took as little more than a teasing, sinister smirk. There was something about him that always had her on edge.

"I have a right to know the truth, Constable." She tightened her lips into a straight, pink line, the ball of twine now crushed under her iron grip. She wanted to know what horrors lay in store for her Erik.

She caught herself in mid-thought. Had she really just expressed concern over the man who had kidnapped her own daughter? As repulsed as she was by the idea, something inside of her still ached whenever she heard mention of Erik's name. To her, he was no Phantom, he was not an Opera Ghost either. He was simply Erik, and she had failed him miserably. Now, she just wanted to guarantee that he would, at the very least, have a chance at escaping unharmed.

She had called Sheridan, despite her distrust, because he would guarantee anonymity, if nothing else. She knew Sheridan could be trusted with matters such as these; he was not one to leak to the press, or even the police for that matter. He had his own private gang of ruffians and miscreants, whom he called for just such highly sensitive matters. Even now she could guess that he had worked out some kind of confidentiality agreement with Raoul, and payment in nothing less than sterling gold and silver. The fact of the matter was that the only thing "police-related" about Mr. Sheridan was the badge which he carried in his left coat pocket.

Christine realized she had allowed the conversation to reach a tense pause, which Sheridan now interrupted with a heavy sigh.

"Look, Countess, I suggest you go and discuss such matters with yer 'usband. I am sworn to secrecy, and I'm afred that includes ye too." With an irritated bow of his head, he made his way past the frozen Christine and exited the hallway, presumably moving on to make all the necessary arrangements for the Phantom's trap.

She considered Sheridan's last statement, did she dare ask Raoul? She knew there was no other way, and swallowed the lump in her throat before opening the squeaking door once more. She mentally braced herself for her greatest performance since _Don Juan Triumphant_.


End file.
